Gentle Wind and Warm Hands
by quickand2thepointless
Summary: Emil returns to Asgard to help Richter, and finds new experiences to enjoy about the city from what he first underwent there with Marta. Richter/Emil fluffy fun.


**A/N: **I got quite a few messages after I wrote Just Checking for another EmilxRichter story, so for all of you who encouraged me to do this, this is for you! Hope you enojy.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the characters, just the sentences.

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It is quiet in Asgard now that the winds have died down, leaving just a gentle breeze to urge the congregation of windmills into constant, rhythmic spinning. People are walking the streets again, and no one is forced to cower in door frames, clutching onto anything nailed down to keep their feet firmly planted on the ground. Emil remembers how it had been the last time they were here. Wind had raced and rushed past them at an unnatural speed, and it was all they could do to run for the sanctuary of the caves before they were sent spiralling into the air by the gusts. Distantly, he recollects that as they fled, Marta had grasped at his hand forcefully, clutching it like a prize she had no intention of forefeiting, though later she claimed her only reason for doing this was to keep them both safer, a united front against the battling winds. No matter how hard he tries to remember, he can't recall how it felt to be joined in that way with her. She had called his hand warm, but he never noticed if hers was or not. It was simply there, curled up against his in a way where he should have been able to feel it, but not warm or soft or tender or exhilirating or anything out of the ordinary. It was just there, and when she at last drew it away, nothing changed. It was as if he had been holding onto a ghost the entire time.

Along with the winds, Marta, too, is gone, although not completely. She is still in the city, though on the opposite side of it than Emil, tucked away in the governor's house relearning the Maiden Ritual for the upcoming festivities in the town. She expects him to be returning shortly like the good little lap dog he is, but this is because she has no idea of where he is really going, and, most tellingly, who he is going with. Marta trustingly believes in the lie he fed her about running errands, although Emil supposes this little detour of his could be qualified as running an errand, in a way. The only thing keeping it from being one is the fact of his heart beating like a drum in his chest, something that would never happen if he were merely shopping for gels or purchasing weapons to use in battle. This— whatever this will be, when all is said and done— is something far from trivial.

As he makes his way through Asgard, Emil thinks of Richter waiting for him at the inn. This meeting between them has been arranged so surreptitiously that he feels for a moment that he is heading into a lover's rendezvous, a clandestine affair behind Marta's back. Such thoughts make his cheeks blush and his head spin as it quickly denies_, But it isn't like that_!, though the idea of secrecy and intrigue compels him forward. As guilty as tricking Marta makes him feel, his blood tingles at the boldness of it, this venturing out unprotected with the lethal enemy, the man who might strike them both at any moment. Even if Emil can't speak up for himself or fight using his own powers, at least now he will have this one independent and risky choice to rest on whenever he doubts his abilities to think and act like a man. And what better way to toe the line than with Richter, the first to ever reach out to him in kindness, a gesture which will not be diminished in Emil's mind even though their blades were now more frequently crossing in less than compassionate terms?

Emil approaches the proprietress, and she points him in the direction of Richter's room. His hand hovers over above the knob of the door for a few seconds before he turns it, as if he wishes to relish the anticipation for a moment or so longer. Richter is a volatile, unpredictable individual, and Emil knows that this adventure has every potential of ending with him being banished from the older man's presence forever. All the same, nothing can stop him from testing the waters and taking the chance now that he is here. Whatever Richter has in store for him is worth enduring if only for the chance to be with him alone and on good terms, with no Marta or centurion's core standing in between them.

"Emil," Richter says calmly when the blonde steps into the room, his green eyes regarding Emil in their typically cold and piercing fashion. "So the mayor was able to intercept Marta?"

"Y-yes. Everything is fine." As always, Emil feels unnerved in Richter's presence. He isn't sure what it is, exactly; it could be any number of things, from Richter's notriously abrupt manner, his overwhelming eyes, or his bitter speech, to his discomforting ability to read Emil perfectly and pick out his every blush, hesitation, and unintentional stammer. It's as if Richter _knows _how he feels, and can sense instinctively his hidden thirst, his desperate desire for approval and kindness, his countless fears of not being good enough to stand up beside his idol, a greater pillar of strength and courage than he would ever be.

"We're going to need to talk to a man named Linar," Richter informs Emil, his eyes still looking through him as if straight through his soul. "He has information about the Balacruf that we'll need to continue. Do you know of him?"

Emil nods. "He's Aisha's brother. He lives on the same cliffside as the mayor does."

"So you'll be able to lead the way?"

"Now?" Emil asks in alarm. "But Marta might be there! Aisha was the one who taught her the ritual in the first place, and she'll probably have to do it again because Marta's forgotten it already."

"I realize that." Richter crosses his arms over his chest, looking vaguely annoyed. "I've paid someone to come tell us when she leaves the house. We'll wait here until then."

"Okay." Emil glances around the room for the first time. It's rather sparse, with only two beds and wardrobe to serve as furniture. There's nowhere for him to sit but the bed, and both are strewn with notes in Richter's untidy script, making them unusable. Emil shifts on his feet, uncertain of what he's supposed to be doing.

"I'd invite you to sit down, but I'm afraid that's impossible," Richter adds, noticing the direction of Emil's gaze. "I don't have the time to organize them before we leave. If you need to, just use the floor."

"That's... that's okay. I'll stand."

"Very well." The redhead absently flicks his hair over his shoulder, a habit of his that Emil is becoming increasingly familiar with. Emil wishes he could pull off such effortless nonchalance, as he knows his emotions too often get the better of him. Richter is always so composed and collected that Emil wonders what he would look like wearing a blush, or perhaps even a smile. They're so different from one another, but at the same time, he feels a connection underlying their complex relationship. Sometimes when Richter watches him, he can sense an understanding, a shared knowledge of what it feels like to be trash under someone's foot, abused and unloved.

"I hope I've impressed upon you what you're getting into," Richter says, breaking through the momentary silence in the air. "I expect you to do your part and keep up with me. And if I catch even one glimpse of Marta..."

"Marta will be the mayor, right? And even if she does go looking for me, I'd doubt she'd ever find us at the Balacruf."

"I wouldn't put it past her to find some way to track your movements. She seems to be keeping a tight leash on you these days. "

"I'm her knight," Emil objects defensively, not appreciating the word choice of 'leash' in connection to Richter's constant accusations of him being dog-like in his submission. "I made it my vow to protect her."

"I see. So now I've been duly forewarned." Richter brushes his fingers against the hilt of his sword innocently, his eyes still on Emil. "Tell me. Do you enjoy the role of the knight in shining armor? I wouldn't have pegged you for it when we first met."

Emil bows his head in shame, remembering how he'd been shoved to the ground by Dida and Moll for not swearing allegiance to Lloyd. If Richter hadn't been there to ward the boys away, Emil isn't sure what would have happened to him. As far as protectors go, Marta can certainly do better. It's hard enough for him just to stand up for himself without the help of others.

"Don't take it personally," Richter amends his statement, noting Emil's dejected response. "I just think your temperment isn't exactly suited to the task. You're such a pushover, and Marta is more than happy to push."

"W-what do you mean?"

"I mean if she forces the issue of you being her darling hero enough, you just might fall for it. Possibly you already have." Richter says this with a mild disgust, as if he finds the thought unappealing.

"It isn't like that!" Emil insists for what seems to be the hundredth time. He feels his cheeks heat at the vehemence of his denial, wondering yet again if Richter knows why he is so firmly protesting the direction of his affections. "I mean," he attempts to correct himself in a calmer voice, "she's just my friend."

"Huh." Richter's face softens an infinitismal amount, and Emil can just barely catch the shift. "I suppose that's bad enough already. The more emotionally invested you are in her, the more hurt you will be when I take Ratatosk's core from her. And despite what you think, it's never been my intention to hurt you."

Emils nods, split between being grateful and concerned by this remark. As difficult as he finds Marta's feelings for him, he doesn't want Richter to kill her, and he doesn't want Richter to posess Ratatosk's core and take away the hope of restoring the balance of mana in the world. To hear Richter confirm this as his mission hurts him, no matter how good hearing that his life is valued makes him feel.

"But I can see you have no intention of staying out of my way, so I'd advise you to be on your guard," Richter adds. "I won't kill you unless I have to."

"Thanks?" Emil answers, questioningly.

"That's nothing to thank me for. Just something to keep in mind."

"Oh."

Emil notices again that Richter is watching him intently, as if he is a puzzle he can't yet figure out. Nervously, he ducks his head and self-consciously brushes his hair back, wondering if there is something amiss in the way he looks. He doesn't know why else Richter would regard him so determinedly when the man was usually so dismissive and curt. What could possibly be going on in his mind? Emil can't help but wonder.

"What's wrong with your hands?" Richter asks abruptly as Emil drops them back to his sides after toying with his hair. Richter takes a step forward and grabs one, turning it over casually to examine it. There are blisters covering the expanse of the palm— a testament to Emil's inexperience in wielding a blade— and cuts from past fights mingle atop the rough skin of his callouses. Another turn of his hand reveals the fading bruises on his knuckles where Marta firmly pressed the pads of her fingers while they were holding hands. The sight of it must have been garish compared to Emil's otherwise neatly kept appearance, but none of the marks and blemishes on his skin register with Emil himself. All he can feel is the strange texture of Richter's skin against his, caramel blended smoothly against white. The redhead has tough and weathered hands, but they are strong and surprisingly gentle as they skirt over Emil's injuries without causing pain and harming the already damaged skin. Emil's breath catches.

"The more practice you have holding a sword, the sooner these will heal," Richter comments as he regards the battered hand. "The path you've chosen is a difficult one, but it will get easier with time. But these marks..." The tip of his fingernail passes over Emil's bruised knuckle, and the bluish-gray skin blanches at the touch, temporarily hidng the discoloration. "What did you do here? It looks like you punched someone."

"O-of course not!" Emil cries in alarm. "I would never do that!"

"Not even to Lloyd? Hmm. I suppose not. You're much too _good_." Richter rolls his eyes for a moment, but they quickly return to the row of bruises. "But you must have punched something or another to make these."

"Actually, they're from Marta," Emil confesses.

"Marta?" Richter's nose crinkles as if he's just smelled something foul. "What was she _doing_?"

"Holding my hand."

"More like strangling it. She certainly doesn't hold back." Richter's nails dig slightly into Emil's palm. "I thought you said she was just a friend."

"She is," Emil says earnestly. "It was just to keep us from blowing away when the winds were bad here."

"Judging from these marks, I'm sure Marta had other motives."

"W-well, maybe..." Emil trails off, his mind wandering once again back to that day. How had Marta phrased it? He remembers her leaning into him, her wide blue eyes shining with happiness. "Your hands are so warm, Emil." That was it. He'd blushed at the remark of course— anything of an intimate nature could make him do that— but he hadn't reciprocated it. He'd merely demonstrated his surprise and then allowed himself to be drawn into another subject by Tenebrae. Marta thought he was so willing to be distracted because she'd embarrassed him, but really it was because he couldn't say back to her what he knew she wanted to hear_: Yeah, Marta. Yours are, too_.

Richter has warm hands, Emil realizes. They're perfect, really. Not hot and sweaty or cold and clamy. Just warm and comforting, like the gentle breezes of Asgard brushing against his face in a kiss.

"Everything all right, Emil?" Richter asks softly, or at least more softly than usual. Emil looks up at him and sees strands of red hair slipping back over his shoulder where they would surely be pushed behind in a moment or two. He feels the urge to do it himself, to feel the silky threads in hands as they slide across the spots Richter's fingers had just been touching. He is grateful that is hands are held hostage and that he can do nothing more than dream of reaching out to Richter in that fashion. More likely than not, doing so would earn him a chilly glare and perhaps a swift shove out of Asgard and back to Marta.

"W-why wouldn't everything be all right?" Emil murmurs, trying to draw his eyes away but finding it impossible to do so. Richter is like a magnet, and he can't help but be pulled in. It's this power that makes him greater in Emil's mind than Marta, even though he knows that Marta's cause is the more just. He wishes he could turn his back and save his heart from loving someone who might end up killing one of his only friends, but he just can't. The attraction is too great, and he can't forsee himself keeping away from such an extraordinary force.

"You look a bit dizzy," Richter comments, ignoring Emil's denials. "Are you sure you don't want to sit on the floor?"

"I'm okay. It's just..."

Richter raises his eyebrows. "Just...?"

The closeness and contact with Richter grows too much for him. He can't to keep to himself the thoughts in his mind, not with Richter looking at him like that, with eyes that demand to be told everything without shame or fear. "Your hands are warm!" Emil blurts out, ducking his head awkwardly the moment the words come from his lips. "I-I mean... y-you..."

For the first time since Emil has met him, Richter looks genuinely surprised. It's only a slight alteration in his composed face, but Emil can see the way his eyes widen and his mouth parts just a little as it faintly registers the shock. He says nothing immediately, but simply gazes upon Emil as if he doesn't understand him or comprehend why such words would ever come from him, his enemy and secret friend.

"It's called body heat, Emil," he finally mutters. "It's not that unusual."

"But Marta's hands aren't warm," Emil disagrees stubbornly. He can't bear to have Richter lecture him like an ignorant child. He knows that this is more than body heat, but rather a fire reaching deeper, burning brightly in his heart. As flustered as his unintentional confession to Richter makes him feel, he would rather own up to it than have it dismissed as a juvenile observation.

"Then I suppose they are either hot or cold," Richter snaps, his voice rising just perceptively in annoyance. "Neither of which are unusual either."

"No!" Emil retorts in frustration, hating to be misunderstood. "Marta's hands aren't _anything."_

The room fills with silence. _I've said too much, _Emil thinks in a panic, but it's too late to backtrack now. The sentiment is already there out in the open, laid bare in all of its honesty. _You make me feel exactly what Marta doesn't. _Richter would have to be a fool not to understand his meaning. Emil is surprised that the older man doesn't just drop his hands in disgust rather than holding on with slightly increased pressure, but still gently, still with care and warmth. Does he not comprehend it after all?

"Emil," Richter says finally, his voice constricted by something, some foreign emotion. "This isn't-"

A knock on the door interrupts him. The two leap apart like guilty children, their hands at last disconnecting from one another. Emil lifts his up, studying it curiously. He's surprised to note that something still lingers there, a faint and tingling sensation of heat, a newfound softness, a pang of loss. After Marta's unstimulating mastery of his hand, he would have never imagined a simple touch could leave behind so much. There would be no marks left behind by this, no unslightly bruises on his knuckles or lines where Richter's fingers grazed his, but something greater has come to him because of it. There is hope in his heart where there wasn't before. Despite their opposing tasks, Richter cares about him. No matter what happens in the coming days and weeks and months, he can hold on to the knowledge that whenever he finds himself facing Richter's sword, it isn't because Richter wants to hurt him. The real Richter, the one hidden so well behind the gruff exterior, is only capable of treating him with gentleness.

"Marta must have left," Richter mutters, his voice slowly returning back to his normal tone. "We're free to see Linar now."

"Y-yes," Emil answers, his cheeks burning awkwardly. "I'll take you there."

"Good. We've already wasted enough time." Richter gathers some of his possessions and checks on his weapons before heading for the door. Before turning the knob, he pauses for a moment and turns just slightly, revealing the profile of his face. "Emil?" he says quietly, just out of the corner of his mouth. "Yours too."

Emil blinks in surprise. "W-what? What do you mean?"

Richter's eyes flicker momentarily to Emil's hands and and then return to his face. As Emil flushes, he rolls his eyes and flicks his hair over his shoulder in his old suave and indifferent manner. "Don't get sappy on me. Let's go."

He pulls open the door and Emil trails after him, his head spinning pleasantly as they venture back out into Asgard and walk admist the gently rushing breeze, a reminder that this world, this moment, is exactly as it should be once again.


End file.
